A slow descent into madness

She becomes a drunk,
a lost semblance to her
former being. Life
becomes the next drink,
the next drink, the
next man, the next
squandering of rent.

She’s like a tattered painting,
fading, but with promise of
restoration, but without a
guiding hand, crumbles to
oily dust. And once the
cracking becomes skin-replacement,
she’s lost. Somberly, she
takes her life, a breathless poem
without a song.

Like this:

There’s something profound
about train whistles in
the dead of night;
two lonesome calls
resounding, something
striking
as I lie next to you,
stroking your soft body
in the silence after
making love, tracing
my fingers in the shape
of petals because
your skin-when I touch it-
feels like lilies.
The rush of the wheels,
the mechanized churning,
in the distance sounds
like wind winding past the
suburban city streets.
I sigh, and you sigh too,
but I sigh because you are
beautiful, and you sigh
because you are contentedly
trying to sleep.

Like this:

You hold a profoundness in
your eyes; I know there’s
something locked behind them,
and I intend to decipher it
someday because you will
open yourself to me as we
pry open our chests and
exchange hearts.

I know you have questions,
but you seem never to ask
as though you have no words,
or you’re waiting on me to
tell you what lies within.
Or maybe you don’t want to know.
Are you fearful of what you’ll discover?
You flip past the pages,
evading the piecing-together of
these fragmented chapters.
And maybe it’s better this way.
I am a chronicling of dangerous
hearts, but mine is the
most dangerous heart of all.

You materialize before me-
and I welcome the vision-
for when slumber heaves
its weight upon my bones,
I seek your warmth,
search for the curls,
the softness of your tender body,
your scent-that fragrance
only you could emit, my
unearthly flower.

In this dark sanctuary,
I see those precious aquamarines
that when they open, and I’ve been
watching, waiting to see them look
into my own soul, I feel Earth stop
and only your and my heart beat.
And I cradle your head, stroke your cheek,
run my curious fingers through your
ashen hair til silver dust blankets the room.
I can only conjure the nectar of your kiss;
ambrosia laced petals that I feel will make
my heart burst when I press my violent
mouth against this velveteen paradise,
and sample time and time again the
essence of life fulfilled.

O, the dream only impersonates
the true figure standing so near,
slipping into my space, my soul;
whirling into my being and making
me tremble at the thought of
being in the presence of
a design I could not
hope to construe.
A lover, a friend,
a soulmate…
you must be here
to save me from myself.

I carry around fear, the burden of
internalized frights because
there could be something
growing inside me.
And I don’t want it,
not now, please, not now.
Let it come in due time.

Life revolves, life twists
and turns;
life, my life, depends
on one drop of blood,
just one drop.
Assure me that things
aren’t about to change
so drastically I won’t
know how to cope–that
I will be swept into
a maelstrom of doubt,
anger, sadness.
Maybe if it is the case,
I’ll know that joy that comes
upon the sight of my beloved’s
face and know that he is the
strength I must draw from.
And then the face that will be
his, and mine, will be implanted
in that of which we have made.
I will look down and mingle
happiness with fear.

Like this:

A deadlier man than him
told me once that
Earth cannot sustain
the decadence of
the pursuit of
happiness, cannot
bolster the crippling
pursuit of love
and what it takes to
maintain it.
But I told him
that to keep
things from falling
apart, we had to
pick up the pieces,
glue them together
to form a mosaic of
life past, present, future.
What else can we do,
but disintegrate?

Like this:

Born atop a barren hill,
amidst dormant trees–
their gnarled fingers protecting
the babe–the fleeting sun
sparked, flashed, then died.
With a gust of wind, the
snow rolled o’er fields,
meadows, forests, ponds
and settled in my sight.
The city is far from me.
There are many names for
what we have.
We can call out to one another,
but we have no words, just
feelings, just touches.
I praise the silence;
I cherish you.

Diluted morning, a time for vespers.
A time for night to slither to
the other side, but slowly, please
ever so slowly, I beg.
I step outside-the breath coiling
from chapped lips-and seek
deliverance from the malaise of
the dollar and coin.
I want to reach into the expanse
and pull the colour, spread it across
my body so that maybe, just maybe,
I’ll be a muse unto myself.
But, with the smoke and breath dissipating,
I return to your warmth and watch you
sleep ever so peacefully.
I’ll take that over anything.

Who knows this light?/It is warm/like cats coiled in laps/like sunlight fresh from the morning/like summers drenched in dew/like pastries from the oven/like hot metal red and smoking/like embraces openly welcomed/like your body next to mine.
Who knows this light?/Me and you/if no one else.

Like this:

What light from distant moons breaks?
the essence bleeds; its blood a
coiled oil: red-black with pain
and understanding. I touch
the rose, colouring the petals
soft with the scarlets of my soul.
What words I carry shift and
contort–how can I confess
to the hearts above?
The fibres of your soul are
strung with mine;together
we are a tapestry purposed, remembered.